


Sola Gratia

by purplekitte



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Angst, Comfort Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Post-Heresy Era, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, The Crimson Fist, surprisingly vanilla sexual content, the hurt being canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:12:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplekitte/pseuds/purplekitte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorn really needs someone to take care of him, preferably with multiple orgasms. Sigismund wants to. Meanwhile, there's no going back and no fixing anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sola Gratia

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for "The Crimson Fist" from _Shadows of Treachery_.

There was something empty in Sigismund’s eyes. Hatred, fury, yes, but something missing, some spark he’d never noticed until it was gone. Sigismund would spend the rest of his life doing atonement, trying to make things right, and do it without the slightest hope of Dorn ever taking him back again.

He’d done that. He’d broken him. He had been right--duty over family, duty over all. It didn’t help.

Even at his angriest, even when he had felt as cold as the mountains of Inwit, even as he had wanted to kill Sigismund for a moment, even when every word he said had felt right and just, he had also wanted to take him in his arms and make the hurt go away.

_Why did you love me so much you betrayed me?_

Sometimes in the pain glove he wondered if he was punishing himself for the weakness of wanting to do less than his duty or because he wanted vengeance on anyone who hurt his son--no, his prodigal bastard--even if it was himself.

There was something wrong with the world that he didn’t know how to put right. He listened to the Lectio Divinatus whispers that were getting more and more common these days and thought he might take up religion, even if it wasn’t real, if it weren’t lacking in what he wanted too. After all, you could hardly argue these days that the Imperial Truth was accurate.

There was no redemption. He’d never been particularly interested in the details of the religions of the planets he brought the Imperial Truth to or in debating theology with Lorgar, but things filtered down to him through Roboute or Magnus, and they were particularly inclined to break human thought down into patterns.

Some religions held that man was inherently evil and needed uplifted from that by their gods. This Lectio Divinatus, this Imperial Cult held that Chaos was evil and turning to it was evil and a choice and irrevocable. He could not disagree on these points, but some part of him wanted to.

He wanted someone to tell him that it was simple. You could say _I’m sorry_ or _Never mind_ and that would be it and all the sins of the past would be washed away. That grace could be as all encompassing as it was undeserved. Pain cleansed the body, prayer purified the soul, but atonement would never, ever be enough and he didn’t know what would be.

He wanted to tell Sigismund _I forgive you, you are my son, come home_ and he didn’t know how. Even his father had destroyed utterly the son he loved most. There was no going back.

Sigismund’s discussion of the final details of the Black Templar’s departure was entirely proper. Not a hair out of place, not a personal aside taken. He didn’t beg not to be sent away. Here was a man who hurt so much, so constantly, and told himself to shut up and do his duty and bear this burden that was his that he couldn’t feel anything anymore. And that was right. Or something.

‘Is there anything else?’ Dorn asked. It couldn’t end this way. It was going to.

He thought he was going to say no. Lord Dorn. Nothing else. Ever. Then Sigismund showed just a hint of facial expression, an expression he had last worn just before Dorn learned he had been betrayed. Hesitation, but the decision to go forward no matter what the consequences.

Sigismund put his hands on his shoulders, lifted himself up off the ground, and kissed Dorn square on the mouth.

‘You can disown me again,’ he said with absolutely no emotion in his voice, like he didn’t care anymore because the worst had already happened. ‘I couldn’t stand spending the rest of my life thinking I had one last chance to do that and let it pass.’

In for a penny, in a for a pound. Nothing else to lose. It spoke well for his character that Sigismund was still trying to do what was right, still trying to pretend things were how they’d been before for the sake of the men, even without expectations of salvation, he wanted to say. He could have compounded treason with more treason.

Dorn couldn’t do less. How many times had he thought, _If only I had been at my father’s side in that moment when it mattered... I should have..._ ‘You were the right choice for Champion. You are the best. That’s why you _must_ leave.’

If he was going along with Guilliman’s plans even if they were tactically unsound rather than allow another civil war, he would do it right. Decentralising power would never work, whatever anyone said, while they lived. He knew that, without a shadow of a doubt, every time he saw how Sigismund looked at him, even after all the things that had happened and being repudiated and disowned and sent away.

‘At your command.’

‘I would rather have you at my side too, but this is more important than I am, or you.’ If he hadn’t lead the defences during the Siege while they were away, if he hadn’t been beside him at the Iron Cage... but retrospective justification meant nothing. He wondered if Sigismund felt vindicated at all. Maybe that was what allowed him to carry on.

‘To your glory and the glory of Him on Earth, my lord.’

‘Sigismund...’

‘We leave at 0700 standard. Let me stay with you tonight. I know you’re in pain. Let me make it a little bit better.’

His one plea. When you were unworthy and unclean all the time, you could either ask for more than you deserved or do nothing and never have anything in your entire life. It was nothing he had earned or should be given as a reward, because things didn’t work that way. He had asked because he wanted to serve, and to be denied was only natural.

‘Tonight.’ Dorn wanted too even if he knew it to be wrong.

Sigismund didn’t hesitate again. He reached for him like a drowning man who had sighted land, like he had been starving and feared that this sustenance might be snatched away at any moment. Dorn leaned down to make the kiss easier, though Sigismund had been doing a perfectly good job already, half-climbing up his body and gripping tightly onto his scalp and short hair.

Sigismund’s blond hair was a little soft and a little spiky as he cupped the back of his head with one hand. ‘Slow down. I won’t give less than I’ve promised.’

He got a familiar look of sullen embarrassment, like when Dorn chided him for rushing into the centre of an enemy formation outnumbered and unsupported, and answered with his typical, ‘I didn’t want to waste time.’

It made Dorn want to laugh and to kiss him again. He didn’t do the former, he didn’t think he could anymore, but the latter he did. Sigismund was a head and shoulders shorter than he was and it was easiest to put one arm around his shoulders and the other around his waist and lift him up.

He was light in his arms even with his armour and Dorn couldn’t help but think he was holding his child to his breast as he carried him from his strategium deeper into his private chambers. Sigismund lowered his head to rest his cheek against Dorn’s throat and worry the skin of his neck above his armour.

Dorn sat down on his bed, a simple and solid piece of furniture, and Sigismund knelt on top of his thighs to kiss him once more. He took his time tracing the outline of Dorn’s lips now that they were comfortably situated, before exploring the inside of his mouth with his tongue.

Sigismund’s hands went to the clasps and seals of Dorn’s artificer armour and rested there lightly. ‘May I?’ he asked, not quite meeting Dorn’s eyes though they were level for once. He wasn’t just talking about the armour, but everything. He could hear the last syllable on his tongue that he cut off before it became a sound audible to anyone but a primarch, and knew he word would have been ‘father’.

‘I place myself in your hands,’ he answered, and the words came so naturally he wondered which of them really needed it more.

Sigismund had always been comfortable with an easy physicality among the bed sheets as in the sparring ring or on the battlefield. Dorn had been perfectly aware of his many flings among his brothers or with Khârn of the World Eaters or Amit of the Blood Angels or that Night Lords captain he had killed during the Siege or any number of other friends or casual acquaintances in other Legions before... before.

He had somewhat envied the ease, though he’d rarely felt the specific impulse. He had his own befores, rare events but each stood out sharply in his mind like cold knives. Companionable evenings with Horus on the _Vengeful Spirit_ before he had returned to Terra. The one time Curze had kissed him suddenly before giggling and running away. Desperately rocking against Corax as they clung together in the dark the night before he returned to Deliverance.

He would have expected Sigismund to be aggressive in bed as in combat, from having met him and from things he had overheard, but here he moved slowly and with what could only be called reverence. He was hardly blinking, hardly breathing, entirely focused on removing each piece of armour from Dorn. There really were no overestimating the feelings of an Astartes for his primarch.

Dorn moved to accommodate each soft touch asking him to shift one direction or another so he could be laid bare. He let Sigismund lay him down on his back and watched him start on his own armour with much less care. Sigismund’s movements had always contained an unusual quickness and boldness even for an Astartes, and that was true now as he revealed hard muscle and bands of scars. The world always seemed to move in slow motion for him compared to what others described, but Sigismund at least was fluid even in his sight.

He was strong and sure, driven and single-minded. He had sometimes thought Sigismund was everything he had wanted in a son, but more recently what he had dwelled on was that Sigismund wasn’t all that much like him, whether he tried to live up to Dorn’s ideals or not. Maybe he’d have done better if fate had given him to the Vth or IXth Legions as a child on Terra. But he could never see that thought through because with a sharp stab of jealousy he couldn’t stand to imagine Sigismund as anyone else’s son but his. Even if he wasn’t that.

Sigismund returned to him and knelt beside him and leaned over him and whispered, ‘Let me take care of you.’ Dorn wondered if he was even aware he had spoken aloud.

Sigismund’s kiss was so sweet and earnest it ached. It made him want to forget everything outside the two of them and this moment and bask in the love and adoration he was given. He didn’t deserve it either, but that was okay because they could be sinners who had failed in their charges together.

He stroked Dorn’s face in long, firm touches of his calloused fingers and palms. It made his skin tingle like it was waiting for something more than didn’t come. Equally slowly and gently he pressed his lips on Dorn’s face, his forehead, the edge of his eye, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth.

So, it was going to be like that. What exactly this was he couldn’t name, but some part of him, some forgotten memory or primal human instinct, knew that it existed, found it familiar. Dorn could take control and overwhelm him in a moment, but he didn’t.

Centimetre by centimetre, Sigismund worked his way down his body. He wouldn’t have thought he had the patience for it, but the look of concentration on his face was the one he got when he was going through sword-drills: so single-minded that he was sparing no attention for imagining anything else he could be doing.

He kissed and sucked at the veins and tendons that stood out on his neck. Meanwhile, he massaged tension out of Dorn’s shoulders, kneading the muscles into relaxation. Dorn felt for a moment like he was sinking into the bed even though he hadn’t moved at all. The hands on him felt good and as utterly alien as the soft kisses. He wasn’t made for this, but it wasn’t _wrong_.

His breath caught as Sigismund licked at a nipple and stroked up and down his sides, a little ticklish, a little sensual. Sigismund grinned, for a moment his old self basking in justified arrogance over his skill.

He had almost forgotten there, lost in the calming touch, that Sigismund’s making love to him was also most certainly sexual. A warm shiver of anticipation rippled through his entire body.

‘Do you like that, my lord?’ he asked, half-serious and half-teasing, and did it again. Dorn groaned.

Sigismund’s hands trailed lower, taking in the contours of his hips and smoothing down his legs. He pressed his thumbs hard into the meat of Dorn’s thighs and rubbed circles with them. He found his toes curling, then relaxing, and almost smiled.

Meanwhile, the Astartes explored the plain of his stomach and abdominal muscles with his tongue, still leaning over him. Wet.

Then he dropped lower. The long scar down his cheek tickled as Sigismund nuzzled his whole face between his legs. Every muscle in Dorn’s body spasmed, sending pleasurable twinges through his groin.

Leaning both hands on his hips, Sigismund moved in to take the tip of his hardening length into his mouth. Dorn had stayed still, passive so far, done with giving him orders, but now his hand found its way into his hair without conscious thought. Sigismund purred around his cock and followed the slightest hints of directions eagerly.

The heat of his mouth felt better than anything Dorn could remember. He hadn’t realised how thoroughly he had forgotten what good felt like in favour of slightly less terrible. It was like being reminded of a wonderful dream that had evaporated at the rise of the sun.

Sigismund worked him over thoroughly, taking as much of him as he could into his mouth and licking and sucking. His hands moved around, wrapping around the base of his shaft, running over his balls, stroking the muscles of his stomach as he unconsciously started to thrust his hips.

It was the gentleness that destroyed him. Pain would have been alright. Would have been good. Would have given him something to hold onto. Instead there were too many emotions and sensations he didn’t want to feel as he shuddered and came. _It’s supposed to hurt because I don’t deserve better._

Some part of that had been aloud, because Sigismund shivered before he resumed licking up Dorn’s come and cleaning his face of trails of it cat-like. His expression hardly changed. Hardly.

Dorn could follow his thoughts. Sigismund felt the same way as he did all the time. _I don’t deserve to be upset. I don’t deserve pity. I deserve all the punishment I received and more. It would only be weakness and self-pity, because it was my own choices that that brought me here._ He had already been denied death when he’d asked for it. No easy way out for him.

‘You can’t hide your weakness from me even if you try to.’

There was a silent, still moment as Sigismund processed that and realised it had been permission. Another moment for his resolve to break.

He sobbed into Dorn’s chest. His eyes were closed but tears rolled down the scars on his face and pooled on Dorn’s skin and he shook with convulsive gasps. Dorn instinctively closed his arms around him. Sigismund was slight in the circle of his arms and he shook even more violently at Dorn’s embrace.

The press of the full length of Sigismund’s body was a shock after only having been touched with hands and mouth since they reached the bed. He absently stroked up and down his scarred back to get the feel of him.

He looked so young and vulnerable. Killing things was easy, and Sigismund was very, very good at it, but that was certainly not the only measure of strength. He should chide him for weakness, but what he wanted was to wipe his face dry and make him smile again.

He wasn’t sure what to say. He knew all the words he wanted to use, but he couldn’t. It was too late to be anyone other than who he was, a man who would break before he bent. It wasn’t his place to absolve, because that would just be a lie unless the whole galaxy was utterly changed again.

‘There’s no honour in being my son.’

‘There is for me,’ Sigismund chocked out between sobs. ‘I’ll fight for you. Forever.’

Everything was a regret. When I had the chance, I wish I had... For once, he knew in advance that this was his last chance and he would never see Sigismund again. Things could never be right again, but he too could have the resolve to grasp opportunity before it slipped away.

Dorn smoothed Sigismund’s hair and put a hand on his head. ‘Here is my blessing: Let people serve thee, and nations bow down to thee: be lord over thy brethren, and let thy father’s sons bow down to thee: cursed be every one that curseth thee, and blessed be he that blesseth thee.’

It didn’t feel wrong to speak of bestowing favour as though there were some kind of divine providence. Some things were too far gone for that to be worth fighting when all you could hope for alone and lost in life was some kind of transcendental approval from on high. At this rate Sigismund would be the last man in the Imperium to be chastened for obeying the words of a saint.

Sigismund whimpered and leaned into his touch. Dorn kissed his forehead, then his lips as he turned his face up to him. Sigismund kissed him back desperately. His eyes and lips were red and swollen and Dorn could taste himself on his tongue.

He should reciprocate. Maybe he should be punishing him instead of rewarding him, but it wasn’t about that. Punishment was meaningless when someone acted freely without regard to the consequences of their actions. Sigismund wouldn’t care because what he gave to Dorn he gave freely and expected nothing in return. Chastisement was no deterrent if he’d already considered such things and decided it was a price worth paying. Nor was it repayment for anything he had done. It was simply that when you’d built nothing of value in your entire life, you came to realise that making someone you loved happy even for a moment had to be worth something, if there was any possibility of meaning anywhere in your existence.

He couldn’t fix the galaxy. He couldn’t make things so everyone’s hopes and dreams couldn’t be taken away in an instant by warring powers beyond their control or understanding. But for the next few hours he could do one thing right.

The kiss deepened and Dorn slowly, thoroughly explored his body with his hands. Sigismund squirmed and his eyelids fluttered before he swallowed hard and regained his composure. Dorn kept going, kept touching, kept making Sigismund shiver and moan, making him helpless and unable to do anything except feel. His eyes kept trying to close entirely, but he would force them back open, not wanting to miss a moment of the last time he saw his primarch that he could have burned into his memory.

Dorn spread his legs and rearranged the two of them, guiding Sigismund’s cock inside himself. It hurt, but the momentary burn was good. Sigismund gasped, bruising his shoulders with his grip and burying his face in his neck, but he knew what to do with his hips perfectly well.

It felt good. It felt right. It felt like everything that had been lost and everything that should have been. It was almost like forgetting for a moment that there was a hole in his heart and the hurt was something he deserved for failing everyone.

Sigismund moved inside him and Dorn knew when he could think again he would feel ashamed at how much he liked this, but they were so far gone already. He could hear his own shaking breathing over Sigismund’s whimpers as he arched into his hard thrusts and took him in to the hilt, and he stroked his trembling back soothingly as Sigismund came.

Sigismund collapsed against him and Dorn just held him, petting his hair and resting his cheek against the dried tear tracks on his face. Why had they waited so long to do this? Why had they wasted so many opportunities over the decades? Why had he managed to ruin everything over and over again?

It would never be enough, but he had him now and that had to be something. He had to be able to live with that because he couldn’t die yet. There was too much to do.

All his works had always amounted to nothing. Sometimes he wondered why he still tried, but in the end he was too stubborn to be any other way. To give up now would be to admit he’d been wrong all along and none of the things he’d done because they’d been _necessary_ had been worth it. His merits were few and his successes fewer. If salvation was something that had to be earned, he did not deserve it. He had only his faith, and the hope he could be accepted for that alone, with nothing else to recommend him.

What would the Lectio Divinatus cultists say to that? Kill the heretic, the traitor, the xeno. Of course you did, because that was what you were supposed to and what Astartes were made for, but it would never be enough. He had been made to be more than that even and he had failed. Merely doing the duty given to him was expected; it would be dereliction to do otherwise. It was not enough to atone. Even going above and beyond the call of duty, somehow, couldn’t change the past.

He wished for Sigismund’s sake that they lived in a world where that which was done for love was automatically good. He wished him the forgiveness Dorn couldn’t give or receive, wished him purity of purpose and righteous fury, wished him a worthy life.

‘I’ll miss you,’ Sigismund said, voice thick with all the things he wasn’t saying, couldn’t say, and Dorn couldn’t respond to, too torn between the cold, cruel things he’d have to say for the sake of the truth and those he wanted to.

‘We’ve hours yet.’

It was weak, it was inadequate, but he too wanted to fill every last minute of those hours. When Sigismund leaned in to kiss him again, he kissed back eagerly and they moved together for as long as they had.

Their parting the next morning in the _Phalanx_ ’s hangar was as proper and professional as was expected by the rows of Marines assembled there in black livery. Dorn locked hands with his most beloved son, released his grip, and never saw him again.


End file.
